by Linda Mooney
The corner rounded just ahead. Atty lowered the bow and dared a look into the market area. What she saw froze every part of her body.
Several men sat on their horses, keeping the people at bay. Several others were digging at the pit, exhuming the roasting meat from the fire. There were a few going in and out of the apartments on the outskirts of the marketplace. Atty guessed there were more than a dozen, but less than twenty strangers. They were dressed in pieces of steel and iron that sparkled when firelight caught it. Several had helmets. None wore the hand-woven cloth and pelts favored by her people. Her heart threatened to break out of her chest as she pulled back and pressed her back against the wall.
Cleaners. They were no longer the stuff of fairy tales, meant to frighten unruly children. They were real. They existed. They had invaded the compound. And they were doing what the tales of horror said they did—they were cleaning the world of everything and everyone who was not “normal”.
Another scream ripped the air. Atty nearly wet her pants at the sound. From the corner of her eye she saw the curtains move in the window of the apartment on the other side of the street. Two faces pale with terror stared at her. She shook her head and waved at them to retreat back into the darkness. Then she gulped down several deep breaths and took another look around the corner.
Those who had remained to watch the fire now lay on their stomachs, their arms bound behind their backs, their feet tied at the ankles and looped up to their wrists. It was a basic hog tie. On a person it was dehumanizing. It also cut off the circulation to the arms and legs in short order.
In the glittering firelight a small stream of something dark was running across the narrow pathway between where the Cleaners were gathered and the cooking pit. Atty choked back a moan when she realized it was blood. Human blood.
“Mutah!”
One of the Cleaners had pulled a woman from one of the apartments on the other side of the compound. At first it was difficult for Atty to see who it was until she was dragged closer to the group that was tied down. It was Emmaline Waters, a woman who had been one of her mother’s best friends.
The Cleaner threw the woman down onto the group and simultaneously pulled his dirk from his waistband. Leaning over, he grabbed her by the hair and efficiently slit the woman’s throat until the head rolled back between the shoulder blades. Blood spurted in an arc like a black rainbow. That done, he kicked the twitching body to the side where other bodies lay unmoving.
Atty bit her lips until they bled. Emmaline had two noses. Her lack of “normalcy” had been easy to spot. But she also had a kind soul and she was an excellent seamstress. Holding her weapon tightly against her, Atty strained to see who had been left alive.
She could only speculate at what was happening, at what had happened. Something, perhaps the smell of the meat, had attracted the Cleaners’ attention. Somehow they’d managed to come through one of the compound gates, a feat that shouldn’t have been that difficult with the horses, Atty surmised. And being Cleaners, they’d seen that the inhabitants of the compound did not “look” like the kind of people they felt should be inhabiting the earth, so they began systematically slaughtering innocent people who exhibited abnormal signs. The screams she had heard had been the last sounds of dying people.
The only thing she couldn’t figure out was why nearly a half-dozen Cleaners remained on horseback. It was like they were waiting—
Atty stiffened. Of course. There couldn’t be any other reason. The Cleaners had happened on a compound full of “Mutah”. Mutants. One of them had left to go back to their own compound to let them know. At some point they would return in force to eliminate the rest of them. Wholesale slaughter. Genocide. There was no telling how far away the Cleaners’ compound was, so it could be later today, tomorrow, or a week from now before the rest of the soldiers showed up.
Atty took another peek. No, not a week. If their compound was that far away the others would not be standing around like they were. They’d dig in, set up a temporary camp to take care of their needs while they waited. No, their compound was nearby. Atty swallowed hard. To think—such barbaric animals lived so close by and the two had never met in all their years of existence. Unless...
Maybe that’s where her father had gone. And her mother. And Keelor. And the countless others who had disappeared unexpectedly over the years, never to return. Maybe the Cleaners had known about them but had chosen not to breach their defenses until now, until tonight.
Then why tonight? she wondered. Why now? If they did have a compound nearby, if they had been responsible for all those people who had vanished without a trace, why were they just now making their presence known? Why did they attack tonight?
Atty shook her head to clear her mind. There was no way the Cleaners could have a compound nearby. If they had known about the mutants, they would not have attacked piecemeal, then sent back some of their own to get the rest. This compound was not huge, but it was large enough to support over two hundred people. Any good leader would not bring a tiny handful of men to attack that many people.
No. The Cleaners had happened upon them by accident. More than likely the smell of roasting meat had caught their attention, as she’d first surmised. They may have approached the sentry... Who had been on duty tonight? Camden? Sweet heavens, if it had been Camden, then no wonder the Cleaners would have broken through their defenses without a second thought. Poor, loving Camden.
She checked the marketplace. The seated riders were still gathered in a small huddle beside the people they’d taken hostage. The few who had dismounted were taking their time searching for others. Meanwhile, the rest of the people remained in their apartments shaking with fear, easy pickings, easier targets. Knowing they would soon be killed because a children’s fairy tale told to prevent unruly brats from disobeying had come to ungodly life. A fairy tale that was no longer fiction, but a horror beyond imagining. A true and unholy nightmare.
Something inside her shut down. Atty knew the feeling. Knew it, reveled in it, and lived for it. Pillan had called it her gift. Her father had called it her innate, natural hunting ability. Whatever it was, it flowed through her like an extra shot of strength and energy.
A dozen steps back was a small cul-de-sac that separated the apartments. It wasn’t deep or wide, but a wooden ladder had been nailed to the side of the building to allow access to the roofs. It didn’t happen often, but it wasn’t unusual for a ceiling to develop a leak, especially during the rainy season in the spring. Repair crews used the ladders to patch the leaks. Atty slipped her bow over a shoulder and hurried up the ladder. On the roof she could gain access to the other apartments in the cluster merely by jumping over the three-foot-wide divisions, unless she wanted to get to the group across the walkway. Those she would have to reach by climbing down and using one of the ladders on that side.
Carefully she made her way over the maze-like cluster, heading toward the open market area. She kept down and hoped the Cleaners wouldn’t look up.
She only had to descend once to a walkway and ascend another ladder before she reached the outer edge of the apartments where shops faced the inner courtyard. She found herself on top of Minnie’s tool shop, easy to tell from the bluish paint dye Minnie used to color the front of her store. From that vantage, Atty had an unobstructed view of the entire market area and the compound wall beyond. She also could see the open north doorway in the fence. The gate was gone, splintered like kindling under the impact made by the lances and charging horses.
Atty shivered. Her hands were beginning to grow numb. She’d forgotten her gloves in the apartment, and now the freezing air was icing every breath she drew and stiffening every inch of exposed skin. She rubbed her hands together, blowing on them to keep the feeling in her fingers. Creeping on her stomach to the edge of the building, she settled her bow into a secure position and re-notched the arrow. Now it was merely a waiting game—waiting for the right moment, the right target, the right angle, and hopefully before the r
est of the Cleaners arrived.
Two more Cleaners emerged from the apartments, dragging a victim in each hand. Looks like a short wait, Atty admitted to herself, taking aim. From the corner of her eye she checked the slight wind ruffling the feathered tip. She held her breath. A split-second later, the arrow drilled the air with its perfectly honed edge and embedded itself in the throat of the Cleaner standing behind the nearest mounted rider. The man stopped, as if contemplating what to do next, before falling backwards from the impact. His body propped itself neatly between the doorway and the window of the leather shop.
Before the Cleaner had let out his last breath, a second arrow spun across the open area and found a home in the mounted rider. The man jumped, then slumped over. The horse mistook his movements as a command and started walking toward the group of bound prisoners.
The Cleaner holding two of the newly found hostages saw the horse heading toward him. “Jeroh! What do you think you’re doing? I said to stay where you are, you dolt! Jeroh!” He started to say more but a shaft of white feathers suddenly protruded from his tongue. He loosened his hold on the two children he’d found and reached up toward his mouth, but his arms never made it. He dropped to the ground like a wet sack.
* * * *
Pierson Deneson never saw the arrow that took out his friend against the leather shop, but he saw the one that hit Jeroh Martine atop his horse. In blind fear he hit the dirt and rolled, narrowly being missed by the corpse of Joel Amilson as it sank to its knees and toppled face down.
“They’re fighting back!” he screamed. As incredible as it sounded, the Mutah were fighting back. Fulcet Abalam grunted beside him. The man had not dropped to his knees as Deneson had done, so Deneson’s first thought was that he was making a noncommittal sound. A moment later the man landed on top of him and pinned him to the ground. The dead man’s weight knocked the air out of him. Deneson struggled to move when he heard a quick, buzzing sound, almost like a bee. Something warm struck him across the face. It took a while before he realized another one of their group had been pierced, and his blood had sprayed upon impact.
* * * *
The group of bound prisoners began to understand that the Cleaners were slowly being taken down one at a time. They struggled with their bonds and cried out to be released.
The remaining Cleaners ran for cover, some barricading themselves behind the doors of the shops. A couple of them thought they would be smart, and tried to use the prisoners as shields. Their mistake—they had no idea how accurate Atty’s aim could be.
They were more confused than terrified. Mutah were known to fight back, but not like this. Not with arrows flying through the darkness like nightmarish spirits, sucking the blood and the life from whomever they struck. No. Mutah fought one-on-one. They hefted clubs and axes and spears, weapons they could swing over their heads before crushing their opponents. Some of the more creative ones had swords and long, double-edged knives. They were the more dangerous ones. But this was the first time they’d run across Mutah who could wield a bow, much less with such accuracy. The attack had been unexpected, and they had been totally unprepared.
There were eighteen Cleaners in the compound. Atty’s quiver held twenty-two arrows. She was making every one of them count. A Cleaner who had taken refuge among the bound prisoners raised his dirk to stab at the unruly group. Atty recognized him as the same one who had killed Emmaline, so she took extra care when aiming. The man stared at the shaft protruding from the hollow of his throat and at the blood bubbling from the wound. He managed to pull out the offending object and get to his feet before a second arrow pierced his left eye with a soft, wet, popping sound. Only then did he topple like a tree.
* * * *
Pinned by the weight of the dead man, Deneson gasped for breath. The cries from the bound prisoners masked all other sounds, making it impossible to tell where the arrows were coming from. The noise also masked the sound of the second phalanx of men entering the compound through the broken gate, until a cry arose from them. He yelled at them to warn them.
* * * *
Atty stiffened. Her attack had done considerable damage. If the second wave of Cleaners hadn’t appeared when they did, she knew she could have somehow managed to turn the tide in her favor. Now it was too late. She was almost out of arrows, and the Cleaners kept coming through the doorway in an unending stream.
* * * *
The second phalanx had come to an abrupt halt once they’d entered the compound. Carnage they’d expected. They had not been prepared for it to be their own men. Immediately one of the men barked orders and nearly a dozen men jumped from their saddles to form a tight barrier. One of the squad spotted Deneson beneath his fallen comrade and helped him to his feet, half-dragging, half-carrying the survivor over to a small cluster of men at the far rear of the barricade.
Deneson accepted the skin of water gratefully. The men waited until the horseman had gotten his voice back before they asked their questions.
“What happened?”
“We were working detail, just mapping out the area, when we smelled the meat cooking,” Deneson told them.
“Who was in charge?”
“Forbis and Manz.”
“Go on.”
“We followed our noses until we found this compound. Forbis ordered Mayertuck back to camp to inform you. Then he ordered us to breach their defenses.”
One of the small group, a man dressed in gold-looking pieces of armor plating, peered into the darkness. “This is a Mutah compound?”
Deneson nodded. “Yes. The sentry had ears hanging down to his waist. That’s why Forbis ordered us to take the compound. Since then we’ve discovered this is a whole colony of them.”
“Who are you fighting?” a deep voice asked.
“The Mutah.”
“With arrows?” the first man asked incredulously.
“There has to be a Mutah on every rooftop,” Deneson said. “Arrows were raining down from everywhere. I would be dead now, too, if Abalam hadn’t fallen on me. I couldn’t get him off. He was too heavy.”
“Or you were too scared to move,” the first man prodded.
“Leave him alone, Karv,” the deep voice admonished. He rose from his kneeling position among the protests of several who warned him he could become a target. The man waved them away to stare at the tops of the buildings surrounding them. “How many Mutah did you say, Deneson?”
“Twenty. Maybe thirty. The arrows were coming from everywhere.”
“Impossible,” Tosh Karv argued. “Mutah don’t use arrows.”
“I’m not lying,” Deneson shot back.
“Then why haven’t any of us been hit since our arrival?” the man questioned him.
The rest of the group paused. They had taken immediate action once they’d realized they were under attack, but since their first defensive move there’d been no sign of retribution. The man turned to one of his subordinates.
“Find out how many are dead. Purst, find a way to get some men up on the roofs. Find our shooters. I also want to talk to some of the Mutah.”
* * * *
Several Cleaners broke away from the phalanx to obey orders, spreading out into the main market area. Atty watched from her vantage point and wondered what to do next. She wished she was closer so she could see who the new men were. It was obvious that one was a leader, possibly the main leader of the group. Whoever he was, he knew war and he knew how to draw a defensive posture. Even if she had more arrows there was little chance she could do any more damage to their ranks.
She watched guardedly as the cluster of Cleaners approached the bound prisoners. Temporary relief swept over her as they were partially untied and herded into one of the shops. They might have escaped death this time, but there was no guarantee how much longer they would remain alive.
The cluster seemed to divide into four smaller groups. One group began to retrieve the bodies of the fallen Cleaners. Another group took over the removal of the cooked badger,
while the third group spread out and disappeared into the narrow pathways between the apartments. Mutant hunting.
Atty shuddered. She’d been so close. And to make matters worse, the morning fog was beginning to descend, obscuring her view of the men in the market area. To add insult to injury, her right leg had gone to sleep. It was the leg she used for balance when taking aim. She tried to stamp some feeling back into it, but it felt more like a lump of dead weight. She tried slapping it, poking it, and banging it with her fist. After some moments the leg began to tingle with familiar pain, and Atty stretched the limb to hurry along its revival. It was only by sheer luck that she spotted the helmeted figure rushing at her through the gray-black mist.
The Cleaner swung his sword, aiming for her head. Instinctively Atty threw up her bow. The blade struck the thick, dense wood, bouncing off. She rolled to one side, and barely missed the sword slicing the air where she’d been. She tried to get to her feet but her numbed leg wouldn’t support her weight, and she listed to one side.
Atty warded off another blow coming sideways. The heavy sword continued its arc. The Cleaner following through by turning around and bringing it over his head to smash downward. In those precious seconds she notched her last arrow and let it fly without aiming.
The shaft punched a hole through the man’s face with enough power to penetrate the skull in the back. The impact pushed him backwards toward the edge of the roof. The sword’s movement brought it down and away, swinging out of the dead man’s hand and over into the marketplace, the length of its steel reflecting the firelight as it fell to the ground.
Gasping for breath, her body singing from the adrenalin, Atty watched as the Cleaner finally toppled from the roof. Engrossed in the man’s descent, she never saw the blow that glanced off the side of her face and sent her sprawling over the tiles.
